THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  By midday on Day 3, and still no Bentley, I was going stir crazy. The monotony was only relieved by Young Fat coming up to enquire after my well-being.

  ‘You okay, Mr Smith? Very quiet.’

  ‘Yeah, as a mouse,’ I said. I offered him a beer, which he declined and clumped back downstairs to his bustling little empire.

  Occasionally, I gave thinking space to Maura Beck. She was quite an enigma. Well-spoken, articulate, shrewd, with the added benefits of good looks and body. She attracted me sexually, certainly, but the pull she exercised amounted to more than the merely physical. I wished I could figure out what it was. Not only that, but I sensed she was troubled, and that her troubles were linked to the Heiders.

  Day 4 in Reno was a Saturday. It yawned ahead, featureless as the desert on Las Vegas’ front doorstep. I read, listened to music, exercised, dozed a little. Night fell without a sound. I was on the final lap of Solzhenitsyn’s tome, the darkness of the apartment relieved only by the illuminated screen of my iPad, and tuned to Rachmaninoff’s sublime Pianoconcerto No. 2 played live, when the green Bentley swung into its slot with less disturbance than a soap bubble riding a summer breeze. The driver got out. The nearest street light was fifty or more yards away, not enough to illuminate his features, so it could have been anybody. However, I had to assume it was my man, Silvano Tosi himself.

  He was on his own. As the office door shut behind him, I went to ready myself. The red and grey top, grey chinos, and red baseball cap, were the essential elements of my makeshift uniform as a delivery man for an invented courier business named Fastfreight. My false brown moustache, and sunglasses with small round lenses, rounded off the fake persona. Just enough to make me unrecognizable as Frank Mason, the hit man Silvano had briefly met two years back.

  My prop was a package about the size of a shoe box, with a flashy Fastfreight label, addressed to Mr Silvano Tosi, at No. 12 Sunshine Alley. This would serve to display when he checked my credentials through the small glass panel in the door. I was gambling on his having no reason to be suspicious of a parcel delivery, even if it wasn’t expected. It was a simple plan, depending only on his cooperation for success.

  My other prop was not a phoney. The Ruger, property of Cesare, went down the back of my pants waistband, sound suppressor and all. I hoped Young Fat wasn’t watching when I crossed the road. It would look to him as if I had my prick on back to front.

  The bell push beside the thumbprint pad was illuminated, and was inscribed PUSH. I pushed, and from within heard a muted buzz. In due course, a panel slid back and most of a face filled the glass square.

  ‘What?’ Silvano demanded, his voice issuing from a speaker grill at the top of the door.

  ‘Delivery for Mr Silvano Tosi.’ I let him see the package.

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, sir. I just deliver.’

  ‘Beat it. Deliver it somewhere else.’

  The panel slammed shut. I stood and stared at the blank space where Silvano’s mug had been. Plan A was already a bust. Lack of a Plan B left me with no option but to back off. I couldn’t even return to the apartment in case he saw me.

  Turning away, I brushed against the Bentley’s wing. Just on the off chance, I tried the driver door. When it opened, I was too astonished to do more than goggle. Silvano was either complacent about his expensive set of wheels, or simply forgetful. Mine not to question it. I slid inside; the rich smell of leather and newness cosseted me.

  Tossing the empty carton into the back seat, I slithered down in the seat to make myself invisible from Silvano’s office. The gun dug into my back, so I dragged it free and kept it at the ready. Another wait was on the cards. So what? I was used to it. The challenge was, with nothing to occupy me, not to doze off.

  The wait wasn’t long. The entrance door opened, creating an oblong of yellow light. Silvano’s muscular frame blotted out most of it. I let him step clear of the doorway and half turn to pull the door shut before I burst out of the Bentley like a rocket from a launcher. His unpreparedness was total. I bulldozed him back into the building, using his head to bludgeon the door aside. He spread his length on the floor. My momentum dragged me down on top of him. I was back to upright in a flash though, leaning on the door, covering Silvano with the Ruger. It had been a sweet, neat ambush.

  Silvano stayed down, winded and slightly dazed, but not cowed.

  ‘Stay put,’ I ordered as he made a move to rise. ‘I won’t kill you, but if you misbehave I’ll put a slug in your leg.'

  He remained in a sitting position, looking daggers. At the tip of his nose was a dab of white powder. If he was high, I would have to be on the alert for irrational behaviour, maybe even a touch of bravado.

  ‘Just tell me what the fuck you want,’ he snarled. ‘Better make it fast, my guys will be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘Whether they will or they won’t, just remember my first bullet is for you.’ I gave my surroundings the once over. I was in a short corridor with doors off, all standing ajar. ‘My name’s Mason. We met a couple of years ago with your father. He had a contract to place.’

  ‘Yeah? So?’ Then it clicked with him. ‘Yeah, I remember you. You made Pa toss me out, you dick sucker.’

  This guy’s turn of phrase made Carl Heider and co. seem refined.

  ‘I don’t do business with schoolboys,’ I said.

  ‘Well, fuck you, pal.’

  He sniffed, wiped his hand across his nostrils.

  Staying out of range of his feet, I motioned with the Ruger.

  ‘Now, get up and go in your office.’ I was assuming he had an office to go into.

  With a muttered curse or two he complied, leading me into a room on the left, done up like a regular office except for a wide screen TV that took up most of one wall.

  ‘Behind the desk,’ I snapped, when he hesitated.

  Once seated he became belligerent again, reminding me that a carload of heavies was about to descend on me, and would I be one sorry son-of-a-bitch if I didn’t fuck the hell out of there right now.

  ‘You’ll notice how terrified I am.’ I wagged the gun. ‘See this? It’s Cesare’s piece. I took it away from him and spanked his bottom.’

  He gasped. ‘You’re that scumbag that hit on Natasha!’

  ‘The hitting was all hers, as if you didn’t know it. Now, cut out the bullshit, and get a sheet of paper and a pen, and start writing.’

  ‘What? Go and fuck yourself. I’m not your fucking secretary.’

  ‘You use the f-word an awful lot,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you try to vary your vocabulary?’

  Instead of curses, he proffered his stiff middle finger. I grabbed his left wrist, slammed it on the desk, and brought the Ruger’s sound suppressor down across his knuckles. He yelled and clutched at his damaged hand with his good hand, eyes streaming.

  ‘Think how much it will hurt if I do the same to your other knuckles.’

  That sobered him. He sucked his injuries and resorted to more bad language.

  ‘Paper,’ I reminded him. ‘Pen.’

  Refraining from cursing for once, he reached to open the top right drawer of the desk.

  ‘Wait,’ I said.

  I circled the desk and, keeping him covered, pulled the drawer open. It contained nothing more deadly than some sheets of A4 paper and a few articles of stationery.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  He extracted a sheet of paper and a black Bic pen.

  ‘Write this.’

  He picked up the pen, keeping his mouth shut for once, and I dictated, ‘I the undersigned Silvano Tosi, do swear the following.’

  After another ‘Fuck you,’ in protest, he started writing, sniffing as he wrote. I didn’t check his spelling.

  In the street headlights whitened the obscure glass of the barred window. I stiffened, mentally prepared to disable Silvano and take on his back-up squad. But it was only Young Fat, calling it a day. The sound of his car’s engine died away.

 
‘That I shot and killed Jefferson Heider ...’ I continued.

  Silvano chucked the pen at me. It missed by inches, bounced off the wall and onto the floor.

  ‘You think I’m gonna write that stuff? You killed Jeff Heider.’

  ‘You’re pushing your luck, Silvano. Either you write this confession or you get a bullet in the knee. This is my final offer.’

  ‘You must be loco! You can’t expect me to confess to a murder I didn’t do, just to get you off the hook.’

  He was quick to guess my objective, I had to credit him with that much savvy.

  I was done with threats. ‘Stand up.’

  He froze. He blinked rapidly at me, searching for a chink in my implacability. None was on offer.

  ‘Stand up,’ I repeated.

  He still didn’t move. He sniffed again, scrubbed at his nostril.

  ‘You see that picture over there?’ He inclined his head towards a cartoonish depiction of a pink Cadillac with a face. ‘Behind it there’s a safe.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘Yeah. Inside that safe is four thousand grams of skag. You know, heroin? Pure and uncut. Worth a fucking fortune on the street.’

  ‘Impressive,’ I said, scenting a trade – his life for a share in the action.

  ‘Yeah, right. You back off, I’ll cut you in for half.’ He nodded eagerly, as if I had expressed disbelief. ‘That’s a straight million.’

  ‘A million, eh?’

  ‘You think I’m stiffing you? You wanna see it?’

  ‘No. You can shove it up your ass as far as I’m concerned. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t deal in them. Now – stand up. And that’s my last time of telling.’

  He caved in. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it, I’ll write your fucking note. Motherfucker,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  I resumed my dictation: ‘That I shot and killed Jefferson Heider on August 22nd ...’

  He found another Bic in the drawer and applied it to paper. To make the confession viable, I had to demonstrate that Silvano knew something about Jeff Heider that only the police knew, and had not been reported by the press – what he was wearing when he was shot.

  ‘To prove that only I could have shot Jeff Heider ...’ I intoned.

  Again he resisted. ‘No way! You ain’t making me the fall-guy.’

  I sighed dramatically. ‘Here are your choices: you write the note and take your chances with the Heider mob, or I kill you. Either way you’re the fall guy. Either way you killed Jeff Heider.’

  Put like that what could he do?

  The final paragraph of the letter stated that Jeff Heider’s attire had consisted of a checkered shirt, red, black and yellow, with short sleeves, and blue Wrangler jeans held up by a wide black belt with a brass buckle. On his feet, beige moccasins.

  ‘Here.’ He flicked the paper towards me. I glanced down at it.

  ‘Sign it,’ I said, ‘and put today’s date.’

  He sucked in a deep breath. Muttered unintelligibly. Retrieved his confession and scrawled at the foot of it, then wrote the date alongside – November 12th and the last two digits of the year.

  ‘Are you satisfied?’ he said savagely.

  I skimmed over the note, made sure that in essence it was as I had dictated it. I folded it and tucked it inside my track top. The portable phone on his desk rang. He reached for it.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I warned him. He seethed in silence, but obeyed. After six warbles, the auto responder cut in.

  ‘This is Silvano Tosi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Hi Silvio, it’s me. We’re waiting for you at Rico’s. If you’re still at the office give us a call.’

  Message logged, the line went dead. The voice I had recognised as Cesare’s.

  ‘You’ve gotten what you came for,’ Silvano growled. ‘Now get the fuck outa here.’

  ‘I will. Before I do though, there’s one other small duty I have to perform.’ I gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Regrettably, now that I’ve gotten your confession, I have to be judge and executioner.’

  He paled. ‘Exec ... utioner? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I have to execute you for the crime of murder. Nevada still applies the death sentence for capital crimes, I believe. You could say I’m doing the state’s job for it.’

  ‘You ... you ...’ He came at me then, across the desk, hands made into talons. I was too quick, hopping back out of range and squeezing the trigger of the Ruger. The bullet passed overhead, the sound suppressor doing its job efficiently, to embed itself in the wall, above the window.

  The shock of his near-miss was enough to deter him from any more feats of bravura. It wouldn’t hold him for long. Knowing he was about to die would make him reckless. He had nothing to lose by putting his life on the line.

  He slumped back in his chair. We looked at each other. The Ruger was steady as an artillery piece; my hand never shook, nerves never spoiled my aim.

  ‘Man, don’t do this. Please don’t do this.’

  Then something Maura Beck had said when we parted company after our meeting, stirred in my memory: ‘I’m glad it’s your conscience, not mine.’

  Silvano’s father, Vittorio, had been an unremitting villain, as vicious as they come. I hadn’t killed him, but based on his track record it would have caused me no qualms. Silvano had taken over from Vittorio, and though my knowledge of him as a person was sketchy, I saw no moral impediment to carrying out the death sentence I had pronounced on him.

  ‘I’m glad it’s your conscience, not mine.’

  My finger was hooked around the trigger. The pull setting on this gun was light, a child could have fired it with minimal effort. If I so much as twitched, a round would leave the muzzle and Silvano would take it in the chest. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to make that twitch. This contract was unlike any other. Silvano Tosi was innocent of the crime for which I had been paid to end his life. Cold-bloodedly to gun him down with no more justification than saving my own life, was not self-defence as most would see it. It was self-preservation. A motive on its own, but it couldn’t be called honourable.

  I put up the gun. ‘This is your lucky day, Silvano. You get to live a bit longer. You may be a worthless shit, but I’m going to give you a chance to be less worthless. Consider yourself as being on borrowed time.’

  ‘You mean that? You ain’t gonna shoot me?’

  ‘Not today. Maybe not next week, or next month. But stop being a bad guy and you’ll never see me again.’

  He was pathetically grateful. His head bobbed like a demented puppet’s. Seeing him like this it was hardly credible that he led a ruthless mob.

  ‘Sure, you bet. I’ll quit the rackets. I promise.’

  Yeah, like I’d quit my racket. Still, it was a bonus, just to make him think about it.

  ‘What about that note?’ he mewled, as I made to leave. ‘What you gonna do with it?’

  ‘Keep it in a safe place. It’s my insurance.’

  If I’d been thinking straighter I’d have realized it could just as easily have been my death warrant.

  TWELVE

  By letting Silvano Tosi live, I had sleepwalked into tiger country. My situation had gone from complicated but under control to deadly dangerous. My enemies had grown in number and now, by my failure to honour the contract, potentially included the Heiders and Il Sindicato, across the Pond in Sardinia. The Tosis too might decide to take revenge, and even the law was taking an interest in me. Against them all, I had only my wits, my skills, and a borrowed gun.

  In a trancelike state I drove back to the hotel, rode the elevator to my room, showered, and stretched out on my bed wearing only a towel. If ever I needed a cigarette since giving up in my early twenties, it was now. My mind was buzzing, trying to figure out why I had let Tosi off the hook. It was hard to credit that I had made a potentially suicidal decision just to earn the esteem of a woman I barely knew.

  After a restless night without much sleep, I checked out and ho
ped I had seen the last of Reno. During the long haul back to Vegas, I had plenty of opportunity to reflect on how to get some answers. By the end of my journey, back in my room at the Renaissance, I was ready to put my tactics to the test.

  It was a little after 9am on Monday when I phoned the Pieces of Eight. She was there, but in a meeting. I let it go without identifying myself, tried again an hour later.

  ‘It’s James Freeman,’ I said when the receptionist asked.

  ‘Oh, hello Mr Freeman. How are you today?’ I assumed it was the girl with the plastic smile. Surprising that she remembered me.

  I reeled off a plastic answer. ‘I’m good, thanks. Yourself?’

  ‘Very well, thank you for asking.’

  The pleasantness was overdone, as it often is in North America. It still beats surliness European-style.

  A few clicks later, Maura was greeting me with a studiedly neutral ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Hope it’s not a bad time. Just wondered if you were busy today.’

  ‘No more than usual.’ Her tone had gone from neutral to guarded, even suspicious. ‘Why?’

  ‘How about lunch, is why.’

  The line went quiet – a quiet that lasted so long I thought we must have been disconnected.

  ‘Are you there?’ I asked

  A slowly indrawn breath, then, ‘Yes, I’m here. Let me get this straight. You kill people for a living. And you’re asking me out on a date?’

  ‘Only a lunch date,’ I said hurriedly. ‘You said about your husband – ’

  ‘I know what I said!’ she flared.

  The temptation to hang up was strong. I had misread the signs, or imagined them.

  ‘About what I do for a living,’ I said, switching tack. ‘Suppose I wished I didn’t. Suppose I wanted out.’

  ‘Then find a priest.’ No softening there. Then just when I had concluded that calling her had been a lousy idea, she said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that ... well, you caught me off balance. To tell the truth, I’ve been off balance for a long time, ever since ...’

  Ever since I killed her husband? I waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. She switched from forlorn to brisk.